


The Delicacy of Fine China

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingerfucking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg learns a lot the first time he falls into bed with Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Delicacy of Fine China

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a sort of companion piece to two of my other fics.
> 
> It's meant to be the other side of the coin for 'The Beauty of a Flower,' which is Molly/Greg: http://archiveofourown.org/works/536883
> 
> And it's a bit of a follow-up to the first chapter of 'New and Different,' which is Mycroft and Greg's first meeting: http://archiveofourown.org/works/626799/chapters/1132004
> 
> The tone isn't what I expected it to be, and it didn't go even vaguely as I thought it would. That said, I'm pretty happy with it. I like when stories have a mind of their own and characters tell me their secrets! :)

Another dinner, but a very different date. Most times, he expected to be a gentleman, had the best of intentions. This time, he hardly even feigned ignorance of what was to come. He’d barely made it through dinner, for fuck’s sake.

Everything seemed different. A strange energy swirled in the air, and—something rarer than it may seem at first blush –the bed they fell into at the end of the night was his own. Everything was new—which was exciting –but it was more than that. The guys at the Met would have a field with him taking a bloke to bed, but fuck ‘em. They weren’t exactly acquainted with the elder Holmes quite like he was, and he couldn’t imagine a single one of them having the wherewithal to turn him down if roles were reversed. Besides, the most powerful man in Britain—if not the whole world –had chosen him, and that was, in and of itself, quite an honour to behold.

To be undressed by hands the had crippled nations, kissed by lips that could lie and extort and bring world leaders to their knees without so much as a second thought… it served to tame the aggressor. Whereas he was accustomed to conquering, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be taken, owned, possessed, marked as the property of another.

And Mycroft was like gunpowder, packed tightly and stored away in a porcelain vase. A vessel possessing all the delicacy of fine china—a frame as fragile as it was exquisite –with such an obscene amount of power hidden inside. Strength and vulnerability rolled up in a breathtaking enigma.

But, as protective layers were peeled away, it became obvious how seldom he let anyone get so close—the way he flinched at each touch, averted his gaze a bit too often. And, as he relaxed, his truths were exposed. Alongside the freckles speckled across his pale skin, there were scars—evidence of how dangerous a life he chose to lead. A detective knows the difference between abuse and torture, and there _was_ a difference. This man—the one whose body told no lies, made clear he had no reason to trust – _had_ been tortured, yet he shed his cloak and opened himself up to whatever might come of it. Physical harm aside, how many times had previous lovers turned him away when they saw the angry, marred flesh left in the wake of nightmares past? Each chipped edge, every crack in the glaze told a tale. Of course he startled too easily, looked away too quickly.

Greg wasn’t like those people who had hurt him though, not like any of them. He wouldn’t shun or ridicule, injure or mark. Kisses were tender, attention paid in worship to every single blemish. His hands remained soft, his touches kind and loving. Few words were spoken and always in a whisper—with _‘you’re beautiful’_ on special. He was pliable and reassuring and—against his own nature –trusting. Any man who had seen as much pain as the one who lay before him was sure to be cautious.

When two capable digits entered him, he knew they were maneuvered as gingerly as possible. And, while no amount of slow deliberation could stop the subtle burn of stretching tissue or the discomfort of fullness previously unknown, no amount of mild distress would stop his desire for more. He refused to wince or whine, and each worried utterance from his timid partner was met with quiet encouragement.

“Don’t stop.”

“More.”

“Please.”

“I need you.”

Words of honesty punctuated by the locking of lips, the intertwining of tongues. “Take me,” he practically begged, and he did so without a hint of shame.

Once permission was so freely granted, the request was soon fulfilled. And he suddenly felt like he was home. So new and different, the feeling of a foreign body occupying space so private and innately his own, and yet he was more alive than ever before—like he was living for the first time in his life. With his fingers hooked over dappled shoulders, his body moved without thought or command, his hips bucking of their own volition.

Then his hands were scrabbling for purchase much lower, thumbs massaging at hipbones before fingertips dug into buttocks, riding the ripple of muscle with each thrust and pulling him deeper. Each snap of their pelvises, slap of groin against arse—it was maddening. To want so much from another human being was dizzying, wishing to live in the moment forever whilst desperate to see the man come apart at the end—two things so disparate, two impossible desires sharing the same space in his head.

And it wasn’t until his vision blew white—his climax spilling over the fist of another –that he even realized he’d been touched. Upon losing himself, the pale, red crescent of teeth marks he left with a snarl on the milky, mottled shoulder poised just above his lips was briefly regrettable, but the praise it elicited washed away his sin. In turn, he allowed his fingernails to rake across a ribcage and bite into shoulder blades. That’s when the form atop his began to tense and curse and call out for more. So, he bit again, this time on the neck proffered before him, a pulse pounding hard against his tongue. He dipped his head to catch the pink bud of a nipple that hardened against his lips as he tugged and twisted, then rose again to nip at an earlobe. His voice came out as a low rumble of a growl when he spoke, “Cum for me,” and snapped at it once more.

Grunting and trembling, Mycroft’s bottom lip was held firm between his teeth. And, when Greg captured it for himself, soothing his tongue across the raw flesh, he could taste the tang of blood. Then a heat burst inside him, the shuddering twitch of pulsing muscle expelling a well-deserved release. The hard grinding at the end sent shockwaves straight to his cock, and it seemed to momentarily consider stirring back to life. But, as orgasm ebbed and the prick inside him withered with spent satisfaction, he felt no residual sense of loss or need.

There were none of the usual giggles when his partner collapsed at his side, only panting and the hammering of two hearts completely in sync. And, when Greg pressed his nose to Mycroft’s sweat-slick neck and dotted his jaw with open-mouth kisses, he received only a contented groan in response. He lay happily in the man’s arms—swaddled in immense power –and slowly started to comprehend the final truth: torture is only torture when it isn’t enjoyed. Perhaps this man hadn’t fallen into a life of danger unwittingly; perhaps he craved it and sought it out. His captors of days gone by had gotten it wrong all along. He didn’t succumb to the pain; he reveled in it. If he grinned or laughed as they did their duty, he wasn’t being strong or brave. He was simply letting his true colours show, giving them a glimpse of the monster that lived within him.

But that monster had kind eyes when it looked at Greg. It had tender, adept hands and an impressively talented prick. It possessed a mind both calculating and captivating, and it had still chosen him. And— _fucking Christ_ –he was all too willing to be chosen. He’d seen past the mask—the bluff _and_ the double bluff –and he was all the more intrigued with what he found. What happened by the morning’s light mattered this time. One night wasn’t enough; one _lifetime_ would still be lacking.

“Will you stay?” he asked, because he had to know.

The confusion on Mycroft’s face said more than words ever could. “Would you like me to?” He’d obviously felt his façade slipping and expected the worst.

Greg nodded against him. “Not done with you yet.”

“And when do you expect to be _done with me_ exactly?”

“Don’t know. Could take ages. D’you mind?”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully and kissed the top of Greg’s head. “Quite the contrary. It sounds delightful.”

And, truth be told, it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Commenting, as always, is encouraged. I loved feedback! ♥


End file.
